


Ribbon, Ribbon

by NaturalEvil



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Aftercare, Biting, Crossdressing, Face Slapping, Infatuation, Laughter, M/M, Masochism, Seduction, Unconsciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-09 02:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17398703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaturalEvil/pseuds/NaturalEvil
Summary: “Da—” That single slap was paid back against V’s cheek, more than enough to silence him. His face feeling as if it had been scalded, his nose dripping stipples of his own pitiful human blood. Dante’s wet tongue pushed hard against V’s gasping lips, fervent and needful, but not for the taste of a lover’s deep kiss.





	Ribbon, Ribbon

It started out small, as many things often do.

Things that Dante noticed about V; little quirks and peculiarities that he couldn’t help but like, though really wished that he didn’t…

(Because whenever Dante liked something, he would inevitably grow to love it)

V’s give-or-take smile was the first thing that had ensnared Dante’s attention. It was the sort of expression that you could never quite guess what it meant, and would be left doubtful even if you were told the answer. Charmed by those little movements that V made with his hands to help enunciate his words during a one-sided conversation, from the wave of his palm to the way his fingers would curve in emphasis around his cane. Spellbound by those slow-blinking green eyes that eluded his every attempt at interpretation, no matter how closely he looked at them, and they at him.

Those were the things that Dante liked and often pondered, staying in his mind for days after they had happened, pushing everything else of value out with mischievous hands that were stained black with ink.

It made him wonder if V was even remotely aware of the sort of affect that he had on him. He honestly didn’t think so, and left the idea alone as soon as another job was brought to his attention.

They would often go out on missions together, as per the request of his agent. It was an apprehensive alliance at first, strange and discomforting for both parties. Dante feeling as if he were (once again) forced into the role of reluctant caregiver; whilst V would only twist into himself as if he were trying to hide, speaking only when spoken to, though sometimes not even then. 

Needless to say, they were odd, but not _at_ odds. The brains and the brawn fighting side by side, cooperating flawlessly in spite of how dissimilar they were in every conceivable way.

Ah well…

Such is life.   

After each successful mission, V would often trail behind Dante, ever weary from the fray, too proud to admit it yet always weak enough to show it. His already uneven steps a little slower than normal, his black cane would hit harder against the ground as he leaned more of his weight onto it than before, his sandals scraping and dragging as if he could not be bothered to lift his feet.

It was during one of those times that V had stumbled and lost his footing, having tripped over nothing and went lurching towards the ground. Dante’s hand had shot out and caught him, an automatic response that the younger seemed quietly grateful for. He recalled how an almost bashful ‘thank you’ was given in return, V’s head kept low as if ashamed, his dark hair cloaking his face like a thief’s hood. Strange, he was given nothing more than the barest words of gratitude, yet they made Dante feel as if he had been kissed on his mouth.     

Back at the shop, V would always ask to wash after each mission, framing the question in a way that made Dante believe that he was supposed to tell him no. But he didn’t, he never did; he would always say ‘yeah, no problem, go on ahead, you stink.’ And then chuckle warmly afterwards. And V would smile his unreadable smile as he took his leather messenger bag into the bathroom with him.

It was the sound of water running into the tub that would make Dante turn away with a heavy sigh. He would drop down onto the couch and suddenly feel so tired, unsure of what to do with himself during those times, by himself but not.

The job was finished, successful, they had split the money evenly, nobody got hurt and everything was good enough. He would tilt his head back and let his hair fall across his eyes, grinding his teeth as he listened to the water run.

He’d drum his hands on his thighs and try not to let his thoughts wander towards the bathroom, but they always did, as pathetically needy as they were. Reaching out towards the door with wretched hopeless hands, wanting to turn the handle and let themselves stagger inside to…

Do what, exactly? To look? To see V naked, exposed, and even more vulnerable than he already was? To watch him bathe himself in a cramped linoleum tub because he couldn’t risk standing up? To touch his tattooed skin and taste it with a gaping mouth until his lips came away stained? Dante would only chuckle at his musings, unsurprised to find that the sound had gone cold.

He rubbed his eyes and then his jaw and wondered if there was a word strong enough to describe his kind of loneliness. Maybe a word that was foreign or old; a word that hardly anyone but the dead knew about anymore.

(Maybe V would know…)

It was then that Dante learned about V’s tendency to take astonishingly long baths. Nearly to the point where he was certain that the younger had fallen asleep and drowned on more than one occasion.    

But if he was still, and listened carefully, he could hear a faint whispering that was as soft as trickles of water; the kind of library-quiet voice that was trying its best not to be heard. As hard as he listened he could never make out the words. Never could tell if it was a poem, a spell, or a one-person argument. He felt that he wouldn’t ever be able to hear what was being said, even if V were to lean in and whisper them right into the hollow of his ear.

Dante would just sit and quell his desire to get up, strip his clothing off and go to join him. He would instead do other things to occupy his attention. Sometimes going over to the fridge to eat some cold pizza or read a magazine at his desk, but they never held his interest for long. The pizza would taste off; bland and too hard to chew. While the magazines were reduced to just chaotic scribbles on glossy paper that he would sometimes toss into the garbage if they frustrated him enough. 

Dante would only sit and wait for V to come out to leave so he could be left in peace, and V would comply; eventually. The younger would walk out of the bathroom refreshed, fully dressed in comfortable casual clothing, and smelling of plain soap and a sweet talcum powder.

At the door he would always murmur his goodbyes in such a way that made Dante believe that it was going to be the last that they would ever see of one another.

But it never was.

“Dante?” He remembered the first time his name was spoken as a question, coming from the back of the shop after yet another mission. The tone had snagged his attention like a hook; in spite of how light and uncertain it sounded. “Dante…?”

Not V’s voice at all, not his name at all.

“Yeah, V. What’s up?” Dante had asked, taking a moment to gather himself as he made his way towards the back of the shop, a series of sudden and inappropriate scenarios flashing throughout his mind. Vulgar little fancies that would not be out of place as the plot in certain videos found online.   

He could see the weak bathroom light, half of V’s thin face peeking out from behind the door, his lips moving inaudibly; mouthing the same few words over and over again.

Dante had always thought of V as the type of person who had to recite things in his head before he said them aloud. Practicing his ‘please’s’ and ‘thank-you’s’ and whatever else the same way the unhinged would practice grinning alone at a bathroom mirror. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need a towel.” That was it; that was all he had wanted, something so reasonable that it actually felt like a twist due to how ordinary it was. Such a normal mistake that everyone has made at least once, it did not suit Dante’s idea of V at all.

(Mysterious, enigmatic, bookish V)

The younger’s dark hair dripping and tangled, jade green eyes downcast, his face streaked with warm water that Dante wanted to lick from his cheeks. He remembers how he had tried to hide his disappointment, as boyishly immature as it was, though he’s certain that V caught a hint of it.    

He went and handed him the towel that was needed; plain, white, honeycombed with a few holes. Dante was careful and only felt cloth, as did V when he took it for himself.

“Thank you.” Dante noticed the way that V sank his teeth into his lip after he had spoken; looking as if he were an actor in a play who had fumbled his simple line.

“Yeah sure, no problem V.”

Dante knew that if their fingers had touched, doing nothing more than a pinky-promise’s worth of contact, he would have grabbed V’s wrist and forced his way into the bathroom. He would have slammed the door shut and pressed their bodies together, in the shower, against the sink, down onto the wet floor. Letting those bad thoughts come loose to have a taste of a wild animal’s freedom.

But he didn’t do that, because they never did touch. He only stood and felt like an outsider, his hands and mind empty as V quietly shut the door without saying another word. But as Dante had turned away to leave, he realized with mild shock that the door had not been locked.

It became a ritual of sorts between them as time went on; a job, a bath, a towel that was constantly forgotten and needed to be asked for. It was a black sheep’s cry for a wolf’s help. Something that Dante did not object to yet failed to understand.

He had no idea if there was some ulterior motive for V’s repeated request, and if there were, what it could have been. He never thought of V as being the forgetful type, as meticulous as he was about seemingly every aspect of his life. It seemed unusual; almost pointless.  

And now it looked as if it had come to an unexpected end.   

Dante was sitting alone on the couch, his knees spread apart for comfort, his head tilted back against the tumorous cushion. He kept his eyes closed because he was exhausted and the only thing worth looking at was behind a closed door. V had drained his bath water a while ago, and had yet to request a towel.

He could hear V whispering as usual, but it sounded off, angrier than it’s been, like some livid incantation. But he did not move, did not rise up from his seat. He was quiet as the bathroom door finally opened, listening to V’s footsteps, uneven and bare as they seemed to tip-toe towards the front of the office.

Still, he kept his eyes closed and his breathing firm, pretending to slumber on, listening attentively as V’s footpath came to an end in front of him. Dante anticipated having his shoulder touched with a timid poke or a nudge. Maybe to have his name whispered softly, dipped in the liquid gold of that smooth voice.

Neither of those things happened.  

But he was touched, in a faint and gentle way that was meant to slowly rouse him. It began on his ankle at first, then up to his knee. It was a toe, trailing up towards the inside of his thigh, pressing a bit harder the closer it got to the center of him, stirring a very important part of him to vigil.

Dante could not help as his breath began quicken and deepen, feeling his closed eyes twitch.  

“I know you aren’t asleep. You can stop pretending now.” V finally said with a snippet of amusement, prompting Dante to open his eyes at last, tilting his head up to see the younger standing above him. It took him a moment to focus, staring at the damp white towel that V kept carefully wrapped around his torso, nestled under his arms, ending just at his thighs that were dappled with water.

Dante only blinked but otherwise did not move, uncertain as to how to respond with V’s foot pressed firmly against him like that. Teasing him, torturing him, so soft yet undeniably aggressive in its intent.

He only swallowed and licked his lips, too stunned to react even as V took his foot away and settled a bit clumsily down into his lap, those knees nestled close and warm against his thighs, squeezing him in a way that made Dante bite his lip and exhale shakily through his nose.   

Each and every move V made was intentional, Dante could tell. Letting the towel slide down his chest in a baiting way as to draw his eyes to it, revealing more and more of his slender inked skin. V could not stop the feline grin that slowly pulled at his lips as he felt Dante’s rough hands gently unravel the towel from his body, tossing it off to the side.

O-oh…

Were Dante given fifty guesses for how their evening would have turned out, he would have never have imagined something like this.

He had always thought of V as a stereotypical intellectual; poetic and alone but never lonely. Perhaps touch-repulsed and virginal, sexless as well as helplessly awkward. The type who would (comically, infuriatingly) misinterpret any sort of advance as being nothing more than friendly. Never romantic in nature, and certainly not erotic.

Oh, how wonderfully wrong he was.

“Do you like it, Dante?” V’s tone was candid, his demeanor one of patience as he waited for a response. His hands busying their way under Dante’s shirt, pushing it up his stomach and chest, smiling only part-way as he felt the elder’s skin shudder lightly under his fingertips.

Dante could only nod. His breathing getting a bit heavier as he raised his arms to let V pull his shirt over his head, tossing it away to rest with the towel.

V looked down, keeping his eyes on Dante’s bare chest that was streaked with thin gray hairs. Holding his breath as he felt those large hands press gently against the small of his back, over his ripe warm flesh that was crisscrossed with intricate strips of ribbon. “For your delectation.” V said with an ideal servant’s smile, far too polite to be sincere, but that didn’t matter.

Dante was silent, almost thoughtful as he traced his fingers along the underbust corset, drinking it in with his eyes and hands. Licorice black and undeniably feminine in its design, trimmed with delicate flowers and thorns that curled and coiled just like V’s tattoos. The panties V wore matched as well, a black rose in bloom at the center, the fabric velvet and straining.

“Sorry for being so straight-forward, but I grew weary of waiting for you, Dante. I always left the door unlocked. You could have come in any time you pleased; I promise I wouldn’t have turned you away.” V said before he moved his hips gently, rhythmically. Each movement was calculated, smooth yet ruthless; provoking a painful ache in between Dante’s legs, his arousal straining against his jeans, against V.

V let his hands flutter down to Dante’s waist, his sleek black hair falling in front of his eyes as he kissed that hard muscled neck, tasting the elder’s leathery musk with a few careful licks. 

 “V…?” Dante gasped out as the younger unbuckled his belt and slipped it out of his pants. He couldn’t think straight, his mind could barely follow along with what had been said. V’s words slipping through his fingers like a ribbon that had been torn from his grasp by a battering burst of wind. “What…do you want? T-tell me what you want. You can tell me…” Dante’s eyes were shut, his voice a soft and desperate whisper, almost a hiss. His lips trembling as he kissed V’s damp black hair, feeling his pants being unbuttoned and unzipped but then cruelly left alone.

“It’s simple. I want you to bite me, Dante.”

It was not a demand, not an order; only a request that fell on the perked ears of a half-blooded demon. Dante opened his eyes, his brow furrowing in sluggish thought like a heavily drunken man trying to swim through thick dark water. He had one question, one word that was caught in his throat and then gulped down before it could be said aloud.

_Why?_

Why would V desire such a thing? To be bitten, to feel pain? Pain was only meant to strengthen or weaken one’s body and spirit; it was not a thing to be envied, to be sought out as if it were some sacred treasure. He doesn’t want that, not from Dante.

“Please, bite me. Please, make me feel it. Make it hurt.” V gasped out, his nails raking slowly up Dante’s ribs, leaving weak red streaks along the way. His words disbelieved and finally ignored.

Dante only shook his head, he couldn’t do it.

Even when he felt those lips that he dreamt about press against his, daring and eager, he did not move. Did not open his mouth to welcome them. Shocked into motionlessness by the request, he only blinked and breathed, taking in the younger’s sweet scent and nothing more.

V retaliated for being disregarded. Rebelled like a fallen angel against the all-loving god of Dante’s caution. Punished him for his gentle hands and closed mouth, or at least tried to. He sucked Dante’s bottom lip in between his teeth without warning, crunching down into it hard enough to coat his tongue with traces of oily demon blood. The groan that came from Dante was not one of pain.  

“You hurt yourself. You’re always hurting yourself. Am I not worthy of such treatment?” V’s thin fingers gnarled themselves throughout Dante’s hair, making slow yet furious movements, digging his nails into the elder’s scalp. The smell of metal perfuming hot from his breath, making Dante feel empty-headed and as he slowly breathed it in, blood speckled at the corner of his mouth.

 _Please choke me._ V wanted to say. _Break my neck. Slit my throat and ornament the wound with your pearls._ He almost, nearly, truly, (but didn’t) say.

_Please…_

What did he want? Was it sex or savagery?

V could only whimper as that devilish mouth, stained lovelorn red, only pressed against his throat and suckled gently. Tender, pseudo-affectionate, and completely harmless; in spite of the bruises that were sure to be left behind.

V did not want that, those lazy little sucks; Dante nursing at his neck like some overfed two-day-old infant. He was angry; angry at _not_ being ill-treated. Angry at being handled with the utmost care; as if he were some fragile and beloved thing that was only meant to be kissed and caressed.

V knows that he does not deserve any of that.

He pulled away, glowering with eyes that were stained-glass fragile and stained-glass sharp.

The quick sound of the slap was not registered by either of them until seconds after it had happened. The palm of V’s hand left stinging and sensitive, Dante’s face unmoving. The lipstick-smear of blood across his mouth was the only indication that any action had taken place.

His mouth curled into a hard grin as his tongue flicked out to taste the speckle, his face tingling, divine and steaming hot from the hit. V did not see the change in expression, turning his head away as he slid out of Dante’s lap to sit beside him. Holding onto his hand that seemed to be hurting, the skin of his palm looking an irritated and bright pink.

Dante could only sigh, prompting V to peek over at him through his gleaming dark hair, his expression incomprehensible, as it always was when at rest. Still, Dante’s gaze grabbed V’s and held it; their eyes none too different in intensity as well as intention, like egg shells and broken glass.

V hissed as Dante’s hand twisted into his hair, grabbing a fistful of the silky black strands, yanking him off the sofa and forcing him down onto the hardwood flooring. Falling on top of him like a cat that’s pinned a struggling bird down by its wings.

V could only pant in surprise as his panties were pulled down to his knees and then left there, Dante forgetting them as soon as they left his hands. His legs, long, thin, and supple, were thrown violently over Dante’s broad shoulders. The elder’s too-rough hands gripping his ankles; crescent-moon nails digging deep into his smooth skin. 

“Da—” That single slap was paid back against V’s cheek, more than enough to silence him. His face feeling as if it had been scalded, his nose dripping stipples of his own pitiful human blood. Dante’s wet tongue pushed hard against V’s gasping lips, fervent and needful, but not for the taste of a lover’s deep kiss.

He tried to accept the gesture, his mouth agape in a silent invitation that Dante quickly dismissed, raking his teeth from V’s chin down to his neck.

V tilted his head back and grinned through that sharp-edged pain that made his head ache. He laughed his enchanting dead boy’s laugh, his throat throbbing under Dante’s possessive urgent mouth. Those hard jaws feeling as if they were ready to crack shut and put an end to him at any moment.  

V felt a heavy rustle of fabric and realized that Dante’s pants were being pushed down to his knees. He could only chew on his lip and whimper at the light brush of the elder’s swollen skin in between his legs, feeling almost like a warning or a threat; and he knew that it was the only one he was going to get.

The pain he felt was jagged, intense, and almost unbearable. It went deeper than his skin, deeper than his bones, deeper than the warm blood that kept his guts wet and sweet.   

Inside, inside, Dante was alive inside of him. There were no fingers, no careful preparation, neither a warning nor gentle words of encouragement. Only a mindless urge that V could only hope that he had the vigor to accommodate.

He wanted this. He asked for this. He still wants this, even as it’s happening.  

Every sound, each moan, every hitch and whine, dropped from his lips like a flock of birds that had been stoned to death. A heavenly agony hooking itself deep into every sound he made, threading its black tendrils throughout the meat in his throat.  

“Bite me. Damn you, bite me.” V’s voice cracked ajar with a manic sort of chuckle that bubbled up through his pain, it was a demand now.

And Dante, hips moving harsh, carnal, and without lucid thought, his lips quivering and dripping thick with saliva, had obeyed.

There was a divine eruption of pain that made V cry out as Dante’s mouth crushed into the side of his neck, passed the fragile skin and tasting the shaky, trembling, _luscious_ meat underneath. Crooked growls erupted from Dante’s throat as he marked V again…

and again…

and again…

Fairy-circles of teeth cut into his body, his shoulders and neck, down to his chest, over his nipples. Ragged bites that were crisp and flawless in the pleasure they infected him with.  

V could only gasp and sigh and bleed into Dante’s mouth, digging his fingers into the elder’s back, curling them into claws that could do no damage. Then he couldn’t breathe and still bled and he never felt more alive, more powerful. Because above him was a God that was going to Hell, and what was V to him, really? Nothing of true value, he figured. Just a bit of offal garnished with black lingerie.  

V groaned as tears streamed down his face like water from a rock that had been thoughtlessly struck. Tears that were neither sincere nor in pain, his leaping heart could not be found in them, Dante could tell that much at least. Made certain when they flavored his slithering tongue, their warm saltiness making him shake and drool and gasp too hard.  

Dante pressed down onto V, into him, crushing him, driving him out of himself. His hands gripping the younger’s thighs; trying to pull him even closer against him still. Frantic for the feel of his soft damp skin, to become versed in the calligraphy of those long ribbons of ink by desperate touch alone.

The muscles in V’s legs shaking in spasms against his chest and shoulders, delicate ankles twisting, toes pointing and rigid. He was close, they both were. V overwhelmed, having settled into distant and unbreakable silence. His rasping breathing; it was the sound that darkness made when it thought that you weren’t listening.

A sound that Dante matched and then surpassed in intensity. Sweat trickling down his face, his tongue swimming in the valentine red love of his mouth, over his teeth that still tasted of human skin. Even after he came, reached his apex, that made him tremble; he wasn’t done.         

He only fell onto V, gently, kissed him with his mouth shut and still pushing, but not wanting to stop until their lips were dead and gone.  

*-*-*

The soft pink-blue of the morning light was the first thing V saw when he found the strength to open his eyes, newborn and weak, it crawled into Devil May Cry.

He moaned out a thin and almost meek sound, feeling as if he were being crushed by the weight of his own crumbling body. The sting in his face, the dim bone-deep ache that rendered him sluggish and heavy with discomfort was almost too much to bear.

The blanket he was covered in was warm, but it pained him when he tried to move, brushing up against his still-open wounds.

Still, Dante had cared enough, more than what V had expected of him. Being covered was astonishing in and of itself, as well as the pillow nestled under his raw stinging cheek.  

Dante sitting in a strange silence at the edge of the couch, V’s bare legs pillowed in his lap, lost in thought as he stroked the tops of V’s feet as if they were the back of a well-behaved cat.

He did not look at V, even as he heard him stir and felt his toes wiggle a little under his fingers. He figured that the right thing to do would be to apologize, but decided not to. V had wanted what they had done. Desired it, pleaded for it, struck him when he had refused. Dante decided that he would not apologize, even if he was sorry.

He had been taught that actions spoke louder than words, so he asked for forgiveness the only way he knew how, because just saying that you were sorry was never good enough.

After they— after _he_ had finished, Dante having torn his corset from his body after he had fallen into unconsciousness, he cleaned up as best he could. 

He went and grabbed V’s messenger bag and cane from the bathroom and set it beside the couch, packed the ruined greasy clothing into an old grocery bag and double-tied the knot. He had no bandages, no band-aids or ointment. Nothing for the wounds that he was responsible for; only a bottle of over-the-counter pain medicine that was almost empty.     

V only wrapped his arms around himself and cradled his elbows in his hands. And as much as it ached, he massaged his arms. His fingers finding the dents of teeth that marked his skin, and he could not help the tiny smile that made his mouth tingle.

He could feel the bite-marks burning everywhere on his body; his arms and his legs and chest. His only regret being that he was not conscious when he was given the rest of them, those that were on his thighs and ankles; having slept through the riveting climax of his own story.

Slowly, he rose up onto his elbows, his movements lethargic and drained completely; unable to muster up the energy to even sigh. When he saw the human misery on Dante’s face he did not know what to think. Left wondering if there was a way to placate it, anything of comfort for him to say.

For the first time in V’s life, words were failing him.   

Dante looked over at him with eyes that were not happy about any of what he had done, holding no light of satisfaction or pride, as would be the norm after a successful hunt. Just what was V trying to do? Seduce him to do what? Fuck his pain away? To take Dante’s lust upon himself as if it were a dying world to balance upon his already hunched shoulders? 

He only sighed as he rose from the couch, slipping out from under V’s feet to do so, the pill bottle rattling lightly when he picked it up from where he had laid V’s bag.   

Listening only partially to Dante’s movements, V decided that he would count the bite-marks when he had the strength, each ring and every tooth that was in it, over and over and over again. He could see it clearly as he rested his cheek back against the pillow.

The tips of his fingers tracing each grand O in the bath, admiring their grotesque splendor in the mirror, their smiles and their frowns, finding them beautiful.

Circling his wrists on the street and at the market, the inside of his thighs when he would lay down in his bed at night. V found the thought exciting, and it shook off a bit of the exhaustion that clung to his half-eaten skin.

“Here. Come on, I know it’s not much, but open up.” Dante’s tone was soft as he shook two pills out into his hand.  

But V was still so worn, and could only lay there, parting his lips just enough for Dante to push two tablets against his swollen tongue. He was content to simply let them melt into froth, like sugar cubes or cyanide; but Dante would not allow that. His hand gentle and pressing on the back of V’s neck as a cup of water was pushed to his dried lips.

It was hard to swallow but V swallowed, taking in a few meager sips to help the pills slide slowly down his throat.  

“Thank you.” He mumbled, his voice too weak for Dante to hear, laying his head back down and closing his eyes. “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you…” V felt used, plucked bare and damaged, and he had never been more content.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you have enjoyed reading this, my lovelies~!


End file.
